


Come Down on Your Own

by Wine Dark Sea (aubreyli)



Series: Wanderlust [3]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Homecoming, M/M, Psychics behaving badly, Telepathic Sex, post-Gluhen, spoilers for the Schwartz Drama CDs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubreyli/pseuds/Wine%20Dark%20Sea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If, as they say, home is where the heart is, then Schuldig's home is probably in a deep, dark pit somewhere, if it ever existed at all.  </p><p>Crawford, in his own quiet, Crawford-ish way, disagrees with that statement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Down on Your Own

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from Blind Faith's "Can't Find My Way Home."

New York is a concrete creature covered in jagged spines of steel and glass, with trains slithering under its asphalt skin.  It’s wilder than Tokyo, rougher than London, colder than Cairo, and always hungry -- for money, for sex, for fame, you name it, someone wants it.   

I’ve been here for two days, and I love it.  I even bought the T-shirt.  

I let myself be carried by the roiling mass of humanity around me, and become a harried Starbucks barista whom everyone back home said was born to be an actress ( _maybe if I drop another ten pounds I’ll actually get a callback)_ ; a giddy young advertising manager high off of just getting the deal that’s going to make his career ( _that’s right, Cheryl, who’s a fucking loser now?)_ ; a buttoned-up college professor desperately trying not to think about the barely-legal redhead from his freshman Economics class.

I linger on that last one, tasting his guilt and shame (she just turned eighteen, he’s _fifty,_ but she wears these little _skirts_ ), before sending him an image of the redhead sprawled across his office desk, her little skirt hiked up around her waist, hot wet cunt clenched around his dick.  I laugh as he quickly moves his briefcase to hide his sudden hard-on.

It doesn’t take long, though, for the voices to become crushing, and I duck into an empty restaurant for a breather.  I don’t have anyone who can anchor me now, so I have to be more careful how far I float.  I forgot, once, in Amsterdam, and was sloughing off other people’s sex and weed for weeks.

I get a coffee -- cream, no sugar, the way Crawford takes it.  I’ve always liked the smell of coffee more than the taste, though I used to sneak sips from Crawford’s cup, just to annoy him.  Crawford had good coffee, ridiculously expensive imported stuff that he’d hide because Farfarello liked to chew on the beans.

Farfarello’s in France right now.  He’s still with Schumars.  He seems happy, or whatever passes for happiness when he’s not killing things.  I don’t think I’ll ever understand what he sees in her.  In fact, I’m still having trouble wrapping my head around the fact that out of the four of us, _Farfarello’s_ the one who’s settled down.

One of those hop-on-hop-off tour buses passes by as I step out of the cafe, and just on a whim, I get on.  Despite the cold, I sit on the upper level, in front of a pair of Japanese girls.  They squeal in excitement when I speak to them in their native tongue.  

“I like your hair,” one of them says, in the high-pitched cutesy voice that I never thought I’d miss.

“Thank you,” I reply, and flick a finger through the bangs of her dark bob.  Her face is innocent in a way Nagi’s never was, not even when Crawford had first found him.  “I like yours.”

Nagi’s still in Japan, still working with that Takatori brat.  He doesn’t need to, of course; none of us do, thanks to Crawford, but Nagi likes it.  He’s good at his job, after working with us for so many years -- organized, meticulous, and ruthless.  And since he’s the one who’s been in one place the longest, he’s become our communication liaison.  That’s how I found Farfarello in France.

The girls want to take a photo with me, the tall, handsome, exotically-coloured foreigner who speaks Japanese so well, but I make them forget until I’ve gotten off the bus.  Eszett’s not after us anymore; Crawford would have warned us if they were, but you never know with the Internet.

I walk across Brooklyn Bridge, and eat American pizza from four places that all proclaim theirs to be the best in New York.  For dinner, I have American steak: medium rare, with a glass of wine.

A taxi takes me back to the Four Seasons, where I’ve been staying for the past two days.  I check at the front desk for messages.  No messages.  I check my email in my room.  No new emails.  

I know that he knows I’m here, just like I know that he’s on the top floor of a Brooklyn apartment.  I know that he works in Wall Street, and that his assistant is attracted to him.  I know where he likes to go for coffee in Manhattan, and where his favorite steak house is in Brooklyn.

I know that his hair is dark again, that he still wears glasses, and still looks good in a suit.

He promised me, when we were just starting out and I still hated him, that I’d be free one day; not just from Eszett, but from him as well.  That in exchange for my cooperation (“My _obedience,_ ” I had snarled back), when my services were no longer needed, he’d let me go, no strings attached, no further contact.  I hadn’t believed him then, and had joined up with the full intention of killing him after he got rid of Eszett for me.  I continued to not believe him, even after I no longer hated him, right up until the moment we were walking out of the Kritiker hospital and he took out a passport and plane ticket.  

Just one passport, and one plane ticket.

He shook my hand, and wished me good luck.  Then he was gone, and I was left watching his taxi drive off, telling myself that being set free was not the same as being discarded; that I was feeling relieved, not abandoned.

Later that day, I bought a plane ticket to Zürich.  It was the first time in years that I’d flown by myself.  I slept through the twelve hour flight, and went straight from the airport to the bank, back to the airport, and onto a plane bound for Rome.  

Travel is easy for a telepath; I went through a dozen cities: Athens, Moscow, Shanghai, Bangkok, Stockholm, Budapest, Cairo, Brussels, Paris, and more, never staying for more than a few weeks before moving on.  Sometimes, I’d pick up a bit of freelance work, but killing just isn’t as fun when there’s no one to share in the bloodlust.  Mostly, I wandered.  On occasion, I’d sense another psychic nearby, but Eszett and Rosenkreuz had already spent their best when they were hunting us; these little leftovers were nothing in comparison.

And then, in London, I got an email from Nagi, telling me that Crawford’s in New York.

I look out my window, at the sea of lights below.  It’s still early; I can go out, to any one of the countless clubs in this seething, glittering city, pick up any one of its countless young, beautiful people.  

I go to bed instead.  I must be getting old.

* * *

The next day, I go to all the tourist places.  They’re kind of disappointing.  After so much travel, all the attractions start looking the same.  The dinosaurs in the Museum of Natural History aren’t any more interesting than the ones in the Museum für Naturkunde.  The Met doesn’t do much for me when I’ve already seen the Louvre.  

I get sushi for a late lunch, mostly out of nostalgia.  When we were in Japan, Nagi and Crawford would always bitch at me for the amount of soy sauce I used -- Nagi because it ruined the flavor of the fish; Crawford because of my sodium intake.

Whatever.  They’re not here.  I’ll do what I like.

It’s a nice, clear day, so I decide to go up the Empire State Building.  There’s a line; apparently, sunset is a popular time to go up there, but I ignore them and make my way to the front.  Being a telepath means you never have to wait in line (I should get that on a T-shirt!).

It’s windy on the observation deck.  I tuck my hair into my scarf, and turn up the collar of my coat.  The city sprawls out below my feet, lights flickering on in the buildings like an electric beast awakening from daytime slumber.  The darkening sky, still with a touch of orange light to the west, yawns wide and open over my head.  I find a corner of the deck and gently nudge everyone else to go away and stay away.  

I’ve been here before, sort of -- I’ve seen this place in Crawford’s mind, a half-forgotten memory from when he was young.  I like that version better.  Fewer people.

It’s the middle of the evening rush, so I decide to walk back to the hotel instead of taking a cab.  I can feel the city slowly emptying around me, like blood seeping from a wound.  Everywhere, from the people in the street to the people in the hotel, they are thinking of home, going home, heading home, I’ll be at home in half an hour honey, see you at home, man I haven’t been home in...

I haven’t been home in…

If I was still an Eszett agent, I would say that Eszett is my home.  Or Rosenkreuz, even though that hellhole is about as much a home as a cesspit is a palace.

If I take home as being where the heart is, then mine is… fuck, probably in a deep dark pit somewhere, if it even existed in the first place.

I look around the hotel room with its bland, impersonal walls, its plain, utilitarian furnishings, its too-soft bed from too many bodies sleeping on it.  I grab my key and my coat and walk out the door.  A taxi screeches to a halt in front of me right as I step onto the curb.  I watch the lights of the city flash around me as we drive through the streets and across the bridge.

I probably should have called first, but he’s probably seen me coming anyway.  I don’t even know what I’m going to say to him, or if I should just stand under his window and hold a boombox or something.

Wait, that thought’s not mine.

His lights are on, and I can feel his presence, which I suppose is a good sign.  If he didn’t want to see me, he could simply not be here.  

The doorman lets me through, and it only takes a few seconds to get the concierge to use his keycard to send the elevator up to the top floor.  It’s a nice building, expensive, well-kept, nice thick walls and plush carpets to block out sound.  I can see why he chose this place.

I track his mind to the unit at the end of the hall, and raise my hand to knock on the polished wooden door, only to have it open from the inside before I can make contact.

“Schuldig.”

It’s different, seeing him with my own eyes and not someone else’s.  His assistant, his doorman -- they focus on all the wrong things: the bare finger of his left hand, the expensive cut of his suits.  They don’t see that his black hair is a dye-job because Crawford’s a vain bastard; that he’s actually several years _younger_ than his fake driver’s license says and the lines around his eyes make him look; that he still hasn’t regained all the weight he’d lost in the weeks he’d spent comatose recovering from his battle with Berger.  

He looks good, though; handsome as ever, of course, but also healthy, well-rested.  His mind is a familiar pool of orderly silence, a cool balm for my city-battered mind.  As I expected, he’s not surprised to see me, but there is still… something.  I guess telepaths aren’t the only ones who can appreciate the difference between seeing something in your head and seeing it in person.

“I was in the neighborhood,” I say, careful to make my tone casual and my posture lazy.  “Thought I’d drop by.”  

He nods.  “Come in,” he says, and steps back from the doorway.

The apartment is spacious and modern-looking, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the Manhattan skyline.  It’s all very tastefully decorated, which means he probably hired a professional.  He doesn’t seem to have a lot of stuff, though; his bookcases are only half full, and the only thing on the fireplace mantle is a clock.  There are a pair of guns on the dining table, on top of big, unfolded sheets of paper -- blueprints, upon closer inspection.

“You’ve got a job?”  It’s been months since I’ve worked a job, and even longer since I’ve worked one of Crawford’s jobs.  

He comes up beside me as I look over his annotations: names, times, warnings, possibilities ranked in order of probability -- all of it in his neat, familiar handwriting.

It’s a two-person assassination job, meant for two very _specific_ persons, in fact, and I can’t help but laugh.  “You slave driver, I just came by to say hello, and you’re putting me to _work?_ ”

He picks up one of the guns: a Beretta that looks just like the one in my hotel room safe.  “I’ll buy you dinner,” he says with a smile, and holds it out to me.

* * *

The target’s name is Vincent Raven (alias; his real name doesn’t look nearly as cool on a business card), an up-and-coming crime lord who’d hoped to accelerate his rise to power by kidnapping the eight year-old daughter of one of his major competitors.  It didn’t work -- the girl’s father got her back, albeit missing two fingers -- and Vincent has spent the last three weeks holed up in his Upper East Side brownstone with the best protection money can buy.

 _You just can’t get good help these days,_ I tell Crawford happily, finishing my kill just in time to watch him paint the last man’s brains on the wall.  Whoever lives here next is going to have a hell of a time getting the blood out of… well, everywhere.

 _Eight minutes before the neighbors come home,_ Crawford sends back, coolly professional, as ever.   _Raven’s room is the second door on the left._

There are quicker ways to do this, of course, neater ways.  But the client wanted to send a strong message, and Crawford’s always been a bit of a thug under his expensive clothes.  It’s one of my favorite things about him.

I shoot open his bedroom door.  Vincent jerks out of sleep and pulls out the gun under his pillow, but Crawford’s shot it out of his hand before he can even flick off the safety.  He howls in pain, clutching his bloody hand.

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls.  “Lou!  Lou, get your fucking ass in here!”

“He’s dead,” Crawford says, calmly, almost pleasantly, like he’s just remarking on the weather.  “Along with the rest.” 

Vincent’s face twists into an ugly grimace.  Apparently, Lou, aside from being his head of security, was also his brother.  “You little fucking--”  Crawford shoots him in the leg this time, and he screams again, his mind gushing rage, fear, hatred, and pain.

 _You’re gonna die._ My voice is Jack Nicholson’s from _The Shining._ He had seen the movie as a kid, and it had scared him shitless.  I whisper to him sweetly, stoking his terror until it overwhelms everything else, even the pain.   _He’s gonna shoot you, just put you down like a dog.  You’re done.  You’re nothing now._

“Fuck, oh Jesus fuck -- who sent you?  Look, I -- I’ll pay, alright?” I feed him images of water-bloated corpses and bird pecked carcasses, and his dear mother’s heart giving out when she learns that both her boys are dead.  “Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll give you double -- triple!”

 _Yes, bargain, beg,_ I tell him, laughing silently at the flickers of hope.  It’s delicious, better than the wine and outrageously expensive caviar I had at dinner.   _Maybe you can buy him.  Give him anything he wants, anything’s better than dying like this._

Vincent half crawls towards us, his injured leg dragging uselessly.  “Please, please, I’ll give you anything.  I -- I have money.  How much do you want?  Five million?”

_More._

“Ten million.”

 **_More_ ** _._

“Fifty million!” he sobs, blubbering his words through snot and spit.

For a moment, Crawford seems to consider it.  He lowers his gun, and relief erupts like a geyser in Vincent’s terror-crazed mind.  He actually starts to piss himself, dark stain spreading across the crotch of his boxers.

I hold my breath, knowing what’s coming.

“Oh, thank God, thank--”  Third shot, to the chest.  He’s dead before his body hits the mattress.

This is what I’d missed, when I was alone: the freedom to just lose myself in the target’s mind, without having to worry about anything else.  I exhale slowly, shuddering , resting my face against Crawford’s shoulder and breathing in his familiar scent of soap, gunpowder, and blood.

 _Good work tonight._ His mind is warm with satisfaction and approval, and I bask in it like a cat sunning itself.  That’s something else I’ve missed -- when you’re working alone, there’s no one to congratulate you afterwards.

 _Likewise, Mr. Crawford,_ I grin, as we head for the stairs _.  You certainly know how to show a telepath a good time._

He laughs, his amusement tickling my mind.   _Come on, we’ve got five minutes._

He gets the car started while I do a final sweep of the house, re-setting the alarm system on my way out.  It’s a nice car -- black BMW with a leather interior and about half a dozen concealed firearms.  I get in, and strip off my hat, gloves, gun-holster, and shoe-covers, dropping them into a bag.  He’s turned on the heated seats, which is a nice touch; I hate being cold.

Actually, now that I think about it, Crawford’s been weirdly accommodating all evening.  At dinner, he didn’t even raise an eyebrow when I ordered seven hundred dollars worth of caviar.  He listened to my travel stories and laughed at my jokes, and if not for the fact that he took me killing afterwards instead of dancing, I’d almost think this was a...

I look over at Crawford, but he’s inscrutable, as usual.  

“You know,” I say, casually, “Vincent had a flight to Morocco in eight hours.”

“I know,” he replies, nodding.

“Cutting it a bit close, don’t you think?”

He shrugs.  “I was waiting for the right moment.”  A textbook Brad Crawford half-answer, but for once, I think I know the other half.

“And the right partner?”

Crawford stops the car at a red light, and looks at me for a long, considering moment.  Then he reaches up and brushes a strand of hair out of my face, his fingertips warm and gentle on my forehead.  “Don’t fish for compliments, it’s undignified,” he says, but his thoughts, clearer through the skin-to-skin contact, murmur a litany of _rightness_ and _want_ and _yes yes finally_ that resonates with something deep inside the empty spaces of my own mind.

“You’ve missed me.”  And there it is again, that resonance.

“You have been known to be useful,” Crawford replies, as he turns his attention back to the road just in time for the light to turn green.  “And we’ve worked well together in the past.”

Coming from Brad Crawford, that’s practically a confession of love.  I know I’m grinning like an idiot right now, but I don’t care.  I don’t even care that he’s probably manipulated this whole thing from the beginning, since the day he walked away from me in Japan.  Predestination, inevitability -- that’s always been Crawford’s playground, not mine.  I trust in what I can feel, what I can know.  I know that tonight’s been the most fun I’ve had in ages.  I know that I’ve missed him too.  

And I know that he wants me, and that he’s been waiting for a lot longer than three days.

“Let’s go back to your place.”

Crawford blinks, and glances over at me.  “What?”

He didn’t see this coming, then.  I wonder how many more “jobs” he saw us working, while he slowly wooed me back to his side.  It’s kind of flattering, that he doesn’t think I’m a sure thing.  Even if, let’s face it, I totally am.

“I know, it’s only our first date, but I’m not into saving myself for marriage.  You?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but then his eyes lose focus.  I have a pretty good idea of what he’s seeing, and I brush a small tendril of lust up against his shields in a brief, teasing caress.  When he comes back, his breathing is a little deeper and faster than before.

“Help me with the traffic, and I’ll get us home in ten minutes.”

I laugh, and open myself to the minds surrounding us.

* * *

It takes about seventeen minutes to get from Midtown East to Brooklyn Heights, without traffic.  Crawford and I make it in just over nine.  It’s exhilarating, speeding down a six-lane New York City highway at 130 kilometers per hour with only our talents keeping us safe.  I’m trembling with adrenaline by the time we pull into Crawford’s underground parking garage, and more than half hard.  

He is too; I can feel his arousal leaking from his shields, arousal that ratchets up another notch every time he looks at me.  He usually has better control than this, which means he’s _letting_ me feel how turned on he is.  That’s exhilarating as well, and I send my own arousal back to him, until we’re just eyefucking each other in the elevator.

As soon as he opens his apartment door, I make my move.  He must have seen that in his visions, because he grabs me a second before I can make contact, slams me against the closed door, and kisses me.

We’ve kissed before, Crawford and me, usually as a declaration of intent, a prelude to sex.  This is more like a claiming, rough and hungry and dizzyingly hot.  His glasses get in the way; I yank them off and toss them aside, stifling his protest with my tongue.  I get my hands under his coat and peel it off his shoulders, seeking heat and bare skin, as he does the same to me.

 _Bed,_ I say to him, _or couch.  Or counter -- really not picky right now._

Soundless laughter ripples from his mind.   _Bed,_ he agrees, and then we’re moving, shedding clothing as we shuffle across the floor.  

We’re down to just our socks by the time we reach his bed.  It’s massive, bigger than most people’s bedrooms back in Tokyo, and covered in silk sheets that feel amazing against my skin after months of hotel linens.  Then his weight settles on top of me, warm and firm and hard in all the right places, and that feels even better.  I moan shamelessly and arch against him, spreading my legs to wrap them around his waist.  

“ _Schuldig,_ ” he gasps, and with this much skin-to-skin contact, I can’t tell if his voice is in my ear or in my head.  He’s not blocking me at all -- he thinks I’m breathtaking sprawled underneath him, my hair (my beautiful hair, he’s always loved it, that’s why he’s never made me cut it) as soft and shining as the silk around me.  This is what he saw earlier tonight, only the reality is so, so much better.  

I free-fall further into his mind, until every sensation doubles.  When he slides slick fingers into me, I feel hot tightness around my own fingers as they move deeper to rub against a spot that makes me shudder with need.  Brad knows my body (Brad?  Oh, he’s Brad here, not Crawford), but it was never like this when we used to fuck, minds locked and just using each other for masturbation, and we didn’t know it could be this good, this _intimate._ We both cry out when he pushes into me, a long hot slide of pressure-pleasure on my cock that I want to fuck back against, but I don’t have much leverage like this -- and then I’m being flipped over and suddenly I do, I can brace my hands on his shoulders and ride him as hard as I want, while he pounds into me from below.  

 _Schuldig,_ I hear faintly, _Schuldig Schuldig Schuldig,_ and suddenly his mouth is on mine again, and that additional point of connection is all it takes for me to come.  Pleasure courses through me in waves, triggering Brad’s orgasm, which feeds back into me, and I drag us both into a closed loop of ecstasy that goes on and on and on.

When I come back to myself, I’m sprawled on my back, panting like I’ve just finished a marathon.  I feel sweaty and sticky, and when I can feel my legs again, I’m sure I’ll be sore too.  Brad’s beside me, also panting, and blinking sluggishly.  His mind is fuzzy with afterglow, but I manage to catch a stray thought.

 _Yeah, same here,_ I tell him, silently because I don’t quite trust my mouth to work properly just yet.   _You’re not so bad, yourself._

“Get out of my head, Schuldig,” he says, though it sounds more like ‘geddouttamuhhead.’He looks younger without his glasses, and the fact that he’s having to squint at me is kind of funny.

 _Sorry._ I scoot a little closer, until I can lay my head on his arm.  “So, what’s next?”

There’s a brief pause, then he’s lifting that arm and wrapping it around my shoulders, pulling me snugly against his side.  “I’d like to stay in New York, at least for now -- it’s got plenty of job opportunities for both of us, and it’s well located for international travel.”  He looks down at me.  “And this place has a second bedroom, but I’ll be disappointed if you use it.”

I smirk.  “Oh yeah?”  I lean up and kiss his mouth, then his jaw and throat.   _How disappointed?_

My dick is nowhere near ready to go again, and neither is his, but we’ve got time.  

I’m not going anywhere.

* * *

**Epilogue:**

He’s making breakfast when I get up, wearing a dark blue yukata that I remember from our first trip to Japan, when we found Nagi.  I had gotten it for him after he had refused to let me buy clothes for our little telekinetic (something about not wanting to stand out and me being colorblind).  I didn’t know he still had it.

“Morning,” I murmur, coming up behind him and wrapping my arms around his waist.  His hair is damp from the shower, and he smells like laundry detergent and aftershave.

He pauses in his egg scrambling to give me a kiss.  “Morning.  Sleep well?”

“Like a baby that got laid twice in one night.”

“That’s disturbing,” he tells me, and turns back to his cooking.  “There’s coffee.”

I pour myself half a mug, then fill it the rest of the way with milk.  It’s a different brand than what he used to drink in Tokyo, Hawaii Kona instead of Jamaican Blue Mountain.  The bag also has a label attached, that says, _Happy birthday, Benjamin! -- Eric._

I sit at the kitchen island and sip my coffee slowly, watching him add the eggs to two plates that already contain sausage, toast, and bacon.  “So, we need to talk about your secretary.”

“He’s my assistant,” Brad says, bringing over the plates.  “And no, you can’t kill him.”

“He thinks about you bending him over your desk whenever he comes into your office.”  The eggs are too bland, as always.  I reach for the salt, but Brad slides it away from me.  “Also, he has seriously unrealistic expectations about the size of your dick.”

“I don’t recall you complaining last night,” Brad replies, as he sits down beside me.  “He’s good at his job.”

I snort.  “ _I_ could do his job.”  In fact, I could do it better, make sure every single deal goes through, make sure his bosses always love him...

“ _You_ would try to distract me with sex.”

Okay, that too.  “I’d call you ‘sir,’” I tell him, grinning lasciviously.

“I don’t want you to call me ‘sir.’”  He taps my plate with his fork.  “I want you to finish your breakfast so I can take you back to bed and fuck you until you have better things to think about than my assistant.”

Well, that’s motivation if I’ve ever heard it.  “Wait, aren’t you going to be late for work?” I ask, glancing over at the stove clock.

He shrugs, finishing his triangle of toast in three neat bites.  “I called in sick.”

I stare at him.  “You’re --” what’s the American phrase? “-- playing hooky?  You’re not actually sick, are you?”

Brad stands up, and places his now empty plate in the sink.  Then he bends down and kisses me, open-mouthed and wet and so _filthy_ that I’m gasping by the time he lets me go.  “Eat,” he murmurs, in a low, soft voice that makes me shudder.  “You’re going to need the energy.”

I eat.  When a precognitive tells you something, it’s best to obey.


End file.
